


The Invention of Cigarettes

by maddiemaynot



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble, M/M, One Shot, barely a thing really, my brain just did a thing and I rolled with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 03:35:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20988155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddiemaynot/pseuds/maddiemaynot
Summary: A friend of mine offered me a flaming sword for "toasting marshmallows and lighting cigarettes", and so my brain took that and rolled with it.(No beta: If I can't write 1k without needing someone to check my work over then I think I should probably just give up writing now!)





	The Invention of Cigarettes

The garden is beautiful. That’s really the only way to describe it. A high wall encircles the whole area but the humans and animals inside are unbothered by this. Why would they ever venture out into the desert and leave such lush and verdant lands? There’s fresh water available easily, thrown down a waterfall whose origins are somewhere at the top of a very high mountain. The water falls into a deep blue pool, which is home to the mouths of several large rivers. The rivers in turn break off into smaller streams, rippling throughout the land and feeding all flora and fauna they reach. There’s more than enough food available too. Fruit trees and edible roots and leaves. The garden has plenty; its inhabitants want for nothing.

Towards the eastern gate of the garden stands an apple tree. God had made it very clear to the humans: Do Not Touch The Apple Tree. And then to hammer the point home, She had sent an angel to guard it. He stands there day after day, night after night, watching the humans and the animals, flaming sword hanging by his side, seemingly forgotten about. The humans never once attempt to defy their Creator.

Crowley disguises himself when he first appears in the garden. He is a snake who would be, were it not for his large size, indistinguishable from any other snake that slithers and winds its way throughout the garden, going about whatever business it is snakes attend to. The first thing he notices about the garden is how beautiful it is. The second thing he notices about the garden, instructions from Hell ringing clearly in his ears, is the angel guarding the tree.

“Take the flaming sword, don’t let the humans eat from the tree,” the angel seems to be muttering to himself. “It’ll be _fun_, Aziraphale, it’ll be _interesting_. I’ll give them ‘interesting’.” He gives a quiet huff and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

Crowley slithers closer to listen.

“Nothing at _all_ happening, humans aren’t even interested in talking to me. Take one look at the sword and off they disappear, as if I’d actually _use_ it on them. Ridiculous. Wouldn’t be very angelic, going around smiting humans before they’ve done anything wrong.”

Crowley smiles - or rather, he is smiling inside. His snake-y exterior isn’t really designed for smiling. He tastes the air with his tongue and slithers ever closer, around the back of the tree to avoid being spotted by the angel - Aziraphale.

“It’s a _promotion_, they said. Get to see humanity at its creation. History in the making. And stay there until Armageddon. Can’t come quick enough if you ask me. Only been here a week and I’m bored.” The angel is talking to himself with the air of someone who hasn’t had anyone to talk to in a long while. He passes the sword from hand to hand, seemingly for something to do. “Wouldn’t be so bad if there was someone to talk to.”

Crowley thinks. Get up there and make some trouble, that’s what he was told. He has an inkling of an idea already, something about apples and sin and corrupting humanity, but it’s only half formed in his head and he’s distracted by the free entertainment the angel is providing. He wonders vaguely how long it takes an angel to go mad. Immortal beings really should be more hardy. A couple of weeks with nothing to do? That should be a mere drop in the vast ocean of immortality, but this angel seems to be different from most. In more ways than just this, although Crowley can’t quite put his (metaphorical) finger on what yet.

Aziraphale runs his free hand through his already unkempt white-blonde hair. He carries on with his little rant, muttering about “blasted Gabriel” and “bureaucratic nonsense”.

Crowley has coiled his long body up and is resting at the base of the apple tree, watching Aziraphale from behind the trunk. He can’t really see what’s so special about the tree, or why God would tell the humans not to eat from it. Probably some inane test of obedience, or perhaps a small joke at humanity’s expense. When is an apple not an apple? When God tells you not to eat it.

What he _can_ see is how special Aziraphale seems to be. All messy hair and frayed hem and crooked feathers. Crowley likes that about him. There’s a glow coming off the angel - not anything so mystical as a heavenly light. Just a warm glow that makes Crowley think of cups of tea and fireplaces - not that either have been invented yet. Neither have cigarettes, but a combination of the flaming sword, the angel’s disgruntled muttering, and a sense of unexplained kinship finds Crowley stretching his body up and up and up until he’s standing upright on two legs. His wings are outstretched, his hair framing his face in long neat curls, a pristine charcoal robe hanging off his lanky frame… and a Marlboro that has no business being at the beginning of time dangling between his lips.

He rolls his shoulders and steps out from behind the tree, the grass rustling under his bare feet. Aziraphale looks round startled, and Crowley grins internally, closing the gap between himself and the angel in two lazy strides. He plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it up.

“Got a light?”

Aziraphale doesn’t reply but his eyes widen slightly. Crowley waves a hand at the flaming sword and repeats his question.

Without thinking, Aziraphale holds the sword up, and Crowley, cigarette once again between his teeth, bends at the waist to hold the tip of the cigarette to the sword. He doesn’t break eye contact with the angel once, a sly grin turning up one corner of his mouth. When the end catches, he takes a couple of small puffs, then takes it out of his mouth with two fingers. He gestures in the angel’s vague direction with the same two fingers in a sort of mock salute, as he strolls away deeper into the garden.

“Thanks,” he calls back over his shoulder, the cloud of smoke from the cigarette drifting along after him like a portent of troubled times ahead.

“Oh well that can’t be good,” Aziraphale murmurs to himself, watching the demon saunter away into the undergrowth, but he’s not sure he means it. His blue eyes are sparkling and his grip tightens slightly on the sword. Finally, Something is happening.


End file.
